I Am So Sorry
by insanityintheflesh
Summary: "His phone had no signal, no living creature was stalking around, and worst of all, there was no hospital. Sherlock was going to die, and it was all his fault." JohnLock and Mystrade "I'm sorry" moments. :
1. John's POV

The blood stained his hands and the smell made his stomach turn. The pain in his heart was agonizing as he looked at the man in his arms. Sherlock's eyes were glazed over, his face twisted as he pulled on John's jumper, attempting to ask for help. But what could John do? His phone had no signal, no living creature was stalking around, and worst of all, there was no hospital. Sherlock was going to die, and it was all his fault.

John looked down at Sherlock, feeling a lump form in his throat. This wasn't his Sherlock. His Sherlock was annoying, independent, deducting everything in sight, and would never shut the hell up. The body he now held was the shadow of his consulting detective. Sherlock was silently pleading for his help and the only noise he was making was his labored breathes.

"J-John."

John covered the hand grasping his jumper with his own, holding onto his last moments of the man's warm touch.

"Yes, I'm right here," John said, trying to reassure Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was raspy coughing. When his coughing fit ended, his face was as white as a ghost and blood trickled from the side of his mouth.

"Love you."

John had to hold back his tears, he had to stay strong. Always had he wanted to hear Sherlock say that the moment he deduced him, but not like this, not now.

"And I love you."

Sherlock gave him that smile, God that beautiful smile, and he was almost blind to the blood covering half of his face. He didn't realize until then that he had tears racing down as fast as his heart beat. Sherlock was suddenly pulled into another coughing fit before his eyes rolled back and he was…he was gone.

John screamed as he gripped Sherlock's lifeless body. People he never met tried to pull him away, but he wouldn't let go, he couldn't.

He cried, "Stop it! I was his only friend. He's mine!"

More came up, overpowering him and pulling him away. He kept yelling, but they wouldn't release them. Men were pulling Sherlock into a car. He didn't understand what was happening, he _just_ wanted to hold him and be alone. Who were these people and why were they taking him away? The people holding him were yelling his name over and over, trying to get his attention.

"John! John! Damn it, wake up John!"

John opened his eyes, gasping for air as he checked over his surroundings. He was in their room, with the moonlight shining through the window. He felt a large hand griping his left shoulder, another wiping away a tear from his dank cheek. Looking up, he instantly locked eyes with a concerned Sherlock.

"John. John, are you alright?"

At that moment, he didn't give a rat's ass if it would scare Sherlock. He pulled Sherlock into an embrace, taking in the scent of Sherlock. He wasn't sure which was reality, but he didn't care. He just wanted _some_ relief from the pain he just witnessed. His companion's tense shoulders confirmed that the man he was hugging was indeed his Sherlock. Sherlock's shoulders relaxed and he hugged John back, rubbing small circles into his back. Even in his despair, he had to chuckle. He did that to the consulting detective the night he came back after three dreadful years. The nightmares came back in sight and he tried to hold in a whimper.

"It's alright John, " Sherlock whispered, "I'm still here. You're safe, I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock's voice was smoothing to him. He spoke in a low mumble, different than how he talked to others. They stayed like that for several moments before John was able to calm himself. He felt chapped lips press against his temple. They didn't have a label on their relationship, they knew their feelings for one another and that was that. John curled himself into Sherlock's shoulder, trying to hide from the other man's questioning stare. He couldn't do anything but sigh. This was the eleventh night John woke up in a panic from what Sherlock has told him (he still did not know that this happened almost every night for those three years; they were only worse now).

"We need to talk about it, John."

He nodded no, which triggered an immediate annoyed sigh from Sherlock himself. John played with the collar of Sherlock's shirt. He was just so tired of the nightmares, of the pain, of bloody everything. Sherlock rested his chin on top of his head, continuing the circular motions with his lanky fingers onto John's back. Slowly, he was drifting back into sleep, but hell to it all, he was scared. He didn't want to witness his partner's death again. Knowing Sherlock, he must've deduced from his tense form and the way he held the collar what John was thinking.

"We can speak of the matter in the morning. I'll wake you up earlier if it happens again."

Sherlock planted another kiss on his forehead. John finally fell into a dreamless sleep, but not before hearing Sherlock whisper one thing in his ear.

"I'm so sorry."


	2. Sherlock's POV

So I decided to do one from Sherlock's POV. Enjoy! :)

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Sherlock was bored. He was going insane from not being able to do something,_anything_. He was in bed, his arms wrapped around John's torso. It was not like he enjoyed this cuddling, he just did not want to wake up John. He sighed, he was so bored. He was not allowed to shoot the walls anymore, so that was a bother. He was not allowed to do experiments at three in the morning either, so he had nothing to do anyway. There was no reason to leave the odd cuddling behind to just sit in another chair, doing nothing.

So he sort of enjoyed the cuddling, he would never tell that to John though. He fancied the warmth he received from John, the way he could rest his head onto the shoulders' of the other. He wouldn't call John just a friend, but not a lover either. Sherlock was not a fan of labels. Partners, that's what they were. They told people they were roommates though, easier to explain to the idiots surrounding them. He was amazed by how their stupidity, had their brains not grown to their maximum capacity? It would seem not so.

Sherlock released a sigh again, he was so bored. He had already counted the white strands in John's hair, solved two murder cases from earlier, and counted to 221,000 sheep.

He suddenly heard John mumbling under his breath. Sherlock thought it was odd how people would mumble when they were talking in their sleep. The voice vocals and dreams were activated by the same part of the brain, so it made sense, but it was odd. John's mumbling was somewhat, well, attractive to Sherlock. It wasn't him yelling or his annoyed murmur, but the vocal chord was nice to listen to for his voice would become low.

He noticed John was shaking slightly. He had witnessed John's nightmares before and from both of those signs, he knew what was about to happen. He slowly flipped John over onto his back, taking both shoulders into his hands. He cursed under his breath, John had been silently crying and Sherlock hadn't realized it.

"John. John, wake up." He received no response, only John trying to pull away. He gripped him a bit harder. "Open your eyes John, it's only a dream," he said a bit louder.

John only struggled more. Sherlock began to panic slightly, John usually woke up after one or two attempts. He began to shake him, speaking louder than before. "Come on, John. Wake up!" John started to make high pitched sounds, desperately trying to get away from Sherlock's hold as more tears fell from his face. Sherlock did not realize he had begun to yell at the other man.

"John! John! Damn it John, wake up!" Suddenly, John woke up with a jolt. Sherlock immediately wiped away some of the tears off. He tried to get the other's attention. "John. John, are you alright?"

He was stunned when John pulled him into a hug. He wasn't quite sure what to do, until he remembered what John had done to him when he returned home. He wrapped his arms around the older man as he shook, rubbing small circles in his back. He hoped it would calm him as it did for himself. The chuckle that escaped John's mouth confused him. Why in the world would John be chuckling after attacking him in a hug, _crying? _Nothing was said until he heard John whimper. John only whimpered when it was about the Sherlock himself. Damn to it all.

" It's alright, John," Sherlock said as he attempted to calm him down, "I'm still here. You're safe, I'm not going anywhere."

He must've guessed correct the theme of the dream, for he felt John slowly relaxing into his arms. Not sure what else to do, he awkwardly kissed John's temple. It was something his mother used to do to him as a child. He gave a questioning glance to John as he felt the other curling next to him, but John wouldn't make eye contact with him. Was the dream that bad? He heard another sigh come from the smaller figure. It must have been bad.

"We need to talk about this, John."

He groaned when he felt John shake his head. He was bloody impossible to cooperate with. When John began playing with his collar, he knew it wasn't the time to talk about it. He probably would not want to relive whatever it was. John was obviously scared to go back to sleep and have another nightmare. Even though his shoulders were tense, the slight drop of them showed he was relaxing into the bed, could possibly drift off any moment.

"We can speak of the matter in the morning. I'll wake you up if it happens again." He let out another sigh after kissing John's forehead. He knew they would not speak of it tomorrow. And if they did, they would never get through it. The past few times they had tried to discuss it, Sherlock would get frustrated on how sad John looked and would kiss him, trying to bring John's smile back, and they'd just have sex. He continued the circular motions on his partner's back, resting his chin on his head.

What Sherlock hated the most about this situation was that the thing he was trying to help John with, was caused by him. When he was certain John had fallen asleep, he whispered to the open room, "I'm so sorry."

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Next chapter will be with Mycroft and Lestrade, Lestrade's POV :) Stay tuned!


	3. Lestrade's POV

So this one is a little after John's incident. A different story line, but they both go with the title :)

Enjoy!

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It had been a long couple weeks for Lestrade. He just wanted to sleep peacefully and ignore everyone who was involved in the situation. He grinded his teeth thinking about it, it made him feel sick. Like Sherlock, Moriarty faked his death and came back for revenge. The time though, he didn't go for Sherlock nor his "friend" John. Greg sighed as he opened the door to the house. He had been forced to stay in the hospital for eleven days. Moriarty and his bitch decided to ambush his division and kidnap Greg. He shivered at the thought. Turns out his bitch Sebastian was as bad as Moriarty. They tortured him physically in every way they could. He thanked whatever God out there that Mycroft came the time he did. He was always on time to dates, and he did it again. Sebastian was about to start the Water torture when Mycroft and a few S.W.A.T. members surrounded the place. Maybe more than a few, actually.

He finally reached the Bedroom and sighed with relief. If anyone asked, he would lie but he was truthfully in agony. He wasn't in as much pain as before, though his body was still throbbing. He threw himself onto the bed and curled up on his side. Mycroft wouldn't be home for awhile, so he decided he'd try to take a nap.

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Operation: Nap failed. He wasn't sure how long he'd been trying to fall asleep, felt like bloody forever. He was comfortable, his eyes were closed, and the blankets were perfectly situated on his body, but sleep would not come to him. Probably from all the drugs they inserted into his blood stream at the hospital. Too exhausted, he decided to keep his eyes closed.

Moments later, he heard the door open, assuming it was Mycroft. He heard a slight thump from an umbrella, Mycroft it was. He eventually felt the bed dip and he instinctively grabbed the other by the hip, pulling him closer. Mycroft took his normal position: Head tucked under Lestrade's chin and one arm across his torso. Something was off though, Greg could tell. He open one eye and scanned his lover. The man seemed fine, breathing normal, other hand gripping his shirt. Wait, his hand. It was always under his cheek, why did Mycroft change sudden interest in his jumper? For the past four years they'd been together, Mycroft never changed his position. He only did when something went wrong at work…Then it clicked, Mycroft wasn't fine at all. They laid there for a while silent until Greg figured it out. His regulated breathing was forced, the hand was grasping him as if he was going to disappear. Lestrade hugged the other tighter, as tight as he could with a wrapped up arm and broken fingers.

He whispered into his governor's ear, "None of this is your fault, you know."

He received a humorless chuckle. "And to think I could hide anything from you."

"No, you can't. You can't even hide your cake from me." Greg grew worried when Mycroft did not laugh at his joke. He sighed.

"You aren't at work right now, so do not try to hide it from me. Are you seriously blaming yourself for this? If it was anyone's bloody fault, it would be mine. I should have closed the door, maybe found a way to escape. I could have tried to contact you earlier, or-"

"Lestrade, be a dear and shut up for a minute." And he did, as he waited for Mycroft to come up with his response. After waiting for what felt like hours, he heard an exhale from Mycroft.

"I should have paid more attention to Sebastian and caught on to his patterns. I shouldn't have left you alone when I learned of Moriarty's reappearance. I should have done so much more to help you and…" He took a breath, "I am so sorry."

That took Lestrade back a bit. Mycroft never said sorry. And if he did, it was in a sarcastic manner. He glanced down and saw how vulnerable he looked. This was not the Mycroft he knew. He was back and okay, with Moriarty on death row. His Mycroft was coming back whether he liked it or not.

He pulled his head back and placed his non-broken hand under Mycroft's chin, raising it upward. Greg looked into the clouded blue eyes he had fallen in love with. He pressed his lips softly on the other male and got an immediate response. The kiss was not rough nor passionate, only a kiss of love. After they shared a few more kisses, Mycroft pulled away and smiled at him. Knowing he did well, Greg resumed their original position.

"I get it. It was not my fault, but I could have lost you to them. And the way we found you…" He let out another humorless laugh, "It's a little nerve wreaking, if I must say."

Greg frowned and pulled his head away again, taking the others head into his hands lightly. "Hey, look at me. I'll be just fine. I can understand where you're coming from, but I'm here, eh?"

Mycroft only smiled and gently kissed Greg's new scar on his throat, leaning back into their position. Taking that as a shut up and good night kiss, Greg kissed Mycroft's forehead and got himself comfortable, feeling sleep drawing him in.

After dreaming of shooting Moriarty in the face, He'd wake up to see Mycroft's hand where it belonged and a ghost of a smile hovering over his lips.

x

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Sorry for not putting too much description in the kiss, I'm still working on writing those.

Next chapter will be from Mycroft's view. What do you think of these so far? Please let me know! :)


	4. Mycroft's POV

**Sorry everybody, I've been on vacation and hadn't got to this chapter 'til now. This is Mycroft's POV. Enjoy! :)**

**-A**

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The only noise that echoed throughout the office was Mycroft's tired sighs. Everyone had gone home after the long day, but Mycroft was finishing up the last of his paperwork. He threaded his fingers through his hair. The past couple weeks had felt like months. Lestrade was kidnapped by Moriarty, whom they believed was dead. Finding them was harder than he had expected. He hadn't been this scared since Sherlock and him played Hide and Seek as children and he wasn't able to find hid brother the whole day. Mycroft and Lestrade have been together for four years, five years in three months. He couldn't sleep while Lestrade was gone, wondering if he was okay. In most cases of kidnaps, the kidnapper would send notes or videos, so you would know the condition of the victim. This was not the case though, for Moriarty and Sebastian kept their whereabouts and Lestrade's condition secret. It was rather annoying.

He closed the folder and stuck it in the file case. Sebastian was in jail for life, with Moriarty officially dead. He knew this information was indeed fact, because he made sure he was the one who shot him. He felt no mercy after all Moriarty had done to them. He did not want a fake death reoccurring. All he wanted was him, Lestrade, Sherlock, and John to be safe. And they finally were. Opening his umbrella, he walked outside to his cab. Anthea was outside opening the door for him while texting Irene. She never told him who it was, but he always saw her typing in the same areas that would spell Irene. Plus the smile that appeared on her face when opening her phone, it was obvious. She lifted her head for a split second, flashing a friendly smile in his direction.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes. You were working later again, I see," then directed her attention back to the cellular device.

"Yes, I did. It will be the last for what I hope a long time." He smiled back as he settled in his seat. Anthea closed the door and entered on the other side.

They headed towards his home. He was resisting the urge to drum his fingers on his leg. He had only seen Lestrade when they found him in the abandoned dunkin' donuts, and a few visits to the hospital. He was not a needy man, but the only thing on his mind was being engulfed by Lestrade's scent. His smell was what could made him feel at home, making the stress melt away in his body.

The car stopped in front of the house, accompanied by Anthea opening his door. He offered a smile and waved good-bye. Mycroft sprinted to the door the moment his cab drove away, having difficulties opening the front door from the rush to get inside. He took a deep breathe and finally opened the door. He slowed down his pace, trying not to look as if he was in a hurry. He walked into their master bedroom. There was Lestrade, laying in their bed. Mycroft could've broke out into song. Lestrade was finally home, laying in their bed. Thinking his better half had fallen asleep, he sat his umbrella down lightly by the coat hanger. Once he stripped out of his suit, he put on one of Lestrade's shirts and slipped on more comfortable underwear. He attempted to slide into bed, but was caught by surprise when his partner grabbed him by the hips, holding him closely under his chin. He instinctively wrapped his arm around Lestrade's torso. He inhaled his scent, though it did not make him feel safer. He looked up to face Lestrade and was met by a bloody and disfigured face. He blinked and the image was gone. Instead, he saw his lover's face that was slightly bruised , but mostly healed. He closed his eyes and all he could see was the state they had found Lestrade, holding his face and trying to make his eyes focus on him. He decided to stare at Lestrade's casted hand instead of resting his eyes. He grabbed a fistful of Lestrade's jumper for comfort. It made him feel secure, knowing that he couldn't slip from the grip any time soon. The images in his mind made his heartbeat quicken, forcing him to control his breathing. He tried to go to bed, but he was not granted with sleep. All that would accompany him were images of a tortured Lestrade. He squeezed his hand, inwardly cringing. He jumped slightly as he felt the grip on his hips tightening. He felt a breathe of air on his ear.

"None of this is your fault, you know."

Mycroft could not hold back his chuckle. He did not laugh because what was said was funny, but because he found it humorous that he thought he could hide his current emotions from Lestrade, which he voiced to said person.

"No, you can't. You can't even hide your cake from me." Mycroft knew it was Lestrade's attempt to make a joke, but he did not find it too amusing at that moment. He kept his eyes cast down. He couldn't look his partner in the eyes, not when they could be read like an open book. He heard a sigh escape Greg lips.

"Are you seriously blaming yourself for this? It was my bloody fault. I should've closed the door, maybe find a way to escape. I could've tried to contact you earlier, or-"

He wouldn't allow Greg to take blame for something that was not his fault, so he cut off the other. "Lestrade, be a dear and shut up for a moment."

How could he voice his feelings without sounding like a complete fool? He gathered up his thoughts and said, "I should have paid more attention to Sebastian and caught on to his patterns, shouldn't have left you alone when I learned of Moriarty's reappearance. I should have done so much more to help you and…" he couldn't believe he saying it, but Lestrade deserved to hear it, "I am so sorry."

Lestrade grew quiet after that. Mycroft hoped he had won, that Lestrade would say it was fine and they would try to fall asleep. He was startled when he felt fingers lifting his head to look into Greg's eyes. As he looked into those hazel eyes, he felt a chill go down his spine; something he felt the first date they had. Mycroft watched as Lestrade slowly leaned down toward him and was met by lips gently pressing against his own. He kissed Lestrade back, threading his hand into his lover's spiked hair. He felt Greg back away for a split second before laying another kiss onto his lips. He responded immediately, parting his lips slightly. After they shared multiple butterfly kisses, they had to separate to regain their breathe. He opened his eyes to look at Lestrades' and couldn't help but smile. He received a loving smile back before he was pulled under Greg's chin.

"I get it. It was not my fault, but I could have lost you," he let out another humorless laugh, "And the way we found you…It's a little nerve wasting, if I must say."

Mycroft felt his head being tilted up again to look straight at a frowning Lestrade. It reminded him of a sad puppy. He would be lying if he didn't say it was oddly adorable.

"Hey, look at me. I'll be just fine. I can understand what you're saying, but I'm here, eh?"

Although he hated thinking it, Lestrade was right for once. Greg was there with him in their overly-priced bed, safe and healing. Mycroft was not promising he would stop worrying, he'd have FBI agents and extra bodyguards guarding the entire household by tomorrow afternoon. He would be able to breathe a little easier though. He kissed Lestrade's Adam's Apple and rested his head back under Lestrade's chin. The response was a simple good-night kiss to his forehead, triggering a smile. He heard Lestrade's quiet snores moments later as his mind slowly relaxed and he was being pulled into a sleeping state. The next few days would be hard on both of them, but they'd make it through. They always did.

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**I hope you liked it! So I'm not entirely sure what I wish to write next, but I have a few ideas.**

**Should I:**

**A) Anthea and Irene**

**B) Moriarty and Sebastian**

**C) A continuation of John and Sherlock's story**

**or**

**D) A continuation of Mycroft and Lestrade's story**

**?**

**Please message me or leave it in your review what you want to do, I need your help! Until next time, have a great day :)**

**-A**


	5. Continuation of Sherlock and John's POV

This is the last chapter everybody! I need to work on my other ideas and I've had writers block for this last chapter. From the reviews and messages, the last chapter is Johnlock, a continuation of Chapter 1 and 2. Please enjoy!

-**A**

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There were no nightmares the rest of the evening. Sherlock usually didn't try to make John come out with it, but today was different. There was no cases for the day, so Sherlock decided he would make his own case to crack; make John tell him what the dreams were about. From his studies, he knew talking to the person causing the nightmares was the best way to stop them from emerging back into the said person's mind. On a day like this, John would usually get up earlier than Sherlock and make them tea. After doing so, John would go for a walk while Sherlock was getting up, and when John came back they would act like nothing happened that night. Sherlock had a different idea for the day, though. Without making John stir, he slipped off their bed. It was a good thing Sherlock was light on his feet, or the stairs would've woken John up and ruined his plan. He's only made tea five times since meeting John, but he knew how the other liked it. While waiting for the water to boil, he turned on the telly. It was on the Maury show again. If you asked him, he wouldn't understand why he watched it either. They were all idiots. How couldn't that woman not tell which one is the father out of the two? The man in the green shirt was obviously not the father, his Adam's apple was too high up. The other man was of course the father, the child and him had the same crinkle next to their left eye. People's common sense was lacking these days. He muted the dumb, American commercials (What was this snuggie and why was it created? It was obviously a robe put on the wrong way) and poured the tea into two cups. Sherlock was not certain when John would rise, so he took his tea and sat down our their couch, un-muting the show.

" How can you get the father wrong four times? It's obviously your sister's ex-boyfriend!" Sherlock didn't realize John was leaning on the door until he heard a chuckle behind him. He turned to see the other man. He loved how John looked after getting out of bed. His hair was a bit more fluffier than usual, and his smile was more laid back. He loved being the only person to see him like that. Sometimes after seeing John in the morning, they'd just go straight back to the bed and they would do things that would make mother cry.

"You're up earlier than usual," John said as he walked to the kitchen.

Sherlock sighed, the nice moment wouldn't last for long. " Good observation, John. Maybe I'll have you do the work for our next case." A laugh could be heard from the kitchen. Sherlock stayed in his seat, waiting for John to emerge back in the room with his tea so Sherlock could bring up the issue. He had already hidden every weapon possible and locked all the doors. John would not win this time. The footsteps were heard earlier than he expected. He tilted his head to see a frowning doctor, who was not holding his tea he had made them. Rude.

" I will not talk about it, I told you that last night."

Sherlock cocked his head. John was not able to deduce, how did he know what the topic of the situation was going to be? John let out a long, deep breath.

"You only make me tea when you want something, or want to make something up to me. I rather not talk about it, and you know that. Thank you for the tea, but I need my morning walk. When I come back, none of this happened, alright?" John rubbed his temples as he grabbed his coat. Sherlock stayed where he was, waiting John attempting to open the door. He let his hand fall after numerous failed attempts.

"You did not lock us in here."

Sherlock continued sipping his tea, " It was the only way to get you to talk. Honestly John, I only wish-"

" Sherlock, no. Not now."

"Come on, this is-"

"Dammit Sherlock, I already said no! I don't see why you want to-"

"Because I care, John. You know that, maybe if you would just talk-"

"It didn't help before and it won't help now. Do you really believe I'm that dumb to have not seen a therapist when this all began? Really Sherlock, I thought-"

"Have you ever thought talking about it to me? The person the dream is about?"

By the time they stopped yelling and cutting each other off, Sherlock was in front of John, holding his shoulders. John opened his mouth, but had nothing to come back with at the detective. Sherlock sighed, slipping his hands down from the shoulders to his hips. John huffed as he leaned into the taller man's chest.

"I guess…we can try? Gosh, this is going to be embarrassing," John said, his voice muffled by Sherlock's coat. Sherlock smiled as they stood there, waiting for John to tell him how the dreams go.

"Well they mostly involve you, well, dying of course. It started with just falling off the building and I'm not able to, um, make in time, as usual. After so long, they, well, got worse. Sometimes we'd be just sitting on the couch, then a bullet would fly through the window and go through your head. There was, um, more than that, but that's for another day. The situations became more random as time went by. You'd die from angry mobs, speeding cars, random snipers, um, a bomb once or twice. I became immune to them for some time. You came back finally and that helped for a bit. But even though they became less frequent, they did became worse. You started to always, um, say a few words to me and it turned to full conversations before and while you were, well, dying. Sometimes whatever or whoever kills you, will came back and kill me. Or I'm stuck with your body and I'm stained with your blood. Um, both sometimes. Other times we would be kissing, but then…Sherlock, I don't think this is helping any. I would like to-"

He was cut off with the passionate impact of Sherlock's lips. Their lips moved in sync as Sherlock pushed John's back to the door. The consulting detective let his hands roam over John's torso while the other threaded his hands into Sherlock's curly locks. Their tongues fought for dominance, their hands claiming what they touched. Sherlock retreated for a split second, looking deep into the other's eyes. Before John could regain his breathe, his neck was attacked with love bites and kisses. The action drew moans from John's mouth, who draped his arms around his lover's shoulders. Sherlock moved down to the scar on John's shoulder, flicking his tongue in circles on it as John played with the curls on Sherlock's neck. The younger Holmes felt his head being tilted back up, his mouth being captured by the other pair of lips. John rolled his groin onto Sherlock's, earning him a growl. Sherlock bit his lower lip and as John gasped in surprise, slid his tongue back into the older man's mouth. Their tongues continued to fight, reminiscing in each other's aroma, before Sherlock pulled away for breathe, resting his forehead on the other. They stood like that for several moment with their eyes closed, calming themselves down. Sherlock opened his, watching as John's eyes fluttered open. He placed a peck on John's nose, receiving a chuckle, almost a giggle, in the process. He mirrored his lover's dashing smile.

Sherlock whispered in John's ear, " Let's see if your dream Sherlock can do that," which granted him a playful shove and a short outburst of laughter.

Sherlock looked back down at John, who was still leaning against the door. "I have an idea that'll help you with your dreams."

John raised an eyebrow in response, his face still flushed from their recent activities, "Oh, really? Please, do share."

" I have two actually. Your choice, John. The first idea is that every night before bed, you give me a love bite. John, stop laughing. Then in your dream, you can check fake-Sherlock to see if it's there. If it's not, then you will be able to register it is not me and find some way to awaken. The second idea would be a simple safe word. Something I would never say, which you'll say to my dream clone, and if I respond incorrectly, you'll know to wake yourself up."

John smiled a genuine smile, grasping Sherlock's hands and locking their eyes. "What would my safe word question be?"

"You could say, ' Let's go to the nightclub that just opened down the street', and if my response is, 'No', then it's a dream."

" Alright. In real life, what would the answer be?"

Sherlock smirked as his pulled John closer before saying, " I guess something like, 'Yes, splendid idea, Watson! Let's get right onto that!' or something like that."


End file.
